


old haunts

by shestepsintotheriver



Series: AUs [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bearded Steve Rogers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky 'im sorry im late i didnt wanna come' Barnes, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Canon Disabled Character, Casual Sex, Gay Bucky Barnes, High School Reunion, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sexual Content, Steve 'fuck you' Rogers, Ten Years Later, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, discussions of both mental and physical health issues, everyone was a bit of a dick in high school (even steve), minor pairings (see author's note), that isn't really casual 'cus neither Steve nor Bucky know how to fucking chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21920593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver
Summary: Steve's ten year high school reunion is just around the corner. He's not going.Except he is.So many things have changed, including himself. But one thing that hasn't? His old crush on Bucky Barnes, the boy who never looked at Steve if he could avoid it. But maybe this time... that, too, will be different.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: AUs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1437799
Comments: 189
Kudos: 468





	1. FRIDAY

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: i own nothing.
> 
> I wasn't gonna write this fic, 'cus  
> a. i have exam readings to be doing  
> b. i have another fic i really should be focused on if i was gonna write
> 
> but in my defense i was  
> 1\. goaded  
> 2\. procrastinating a. and b.  
> and 3. this fic is only gonna be 3 chapters, so

Steve doesn’t _need_ to go to his high school reunion.

He doesn’t. It’s been ten years, ten blissful, amazing years since he last set foot in those halls. He walked out the door, kept his head high, and never looked back. He’s over it. He _is_. He’s got nothing to prove to anyone, not anymore. He’s outgrown that need the same way he outgrew his clothes when a late-onset growth spurt finally hit in college. He doesn’t keep in contact with anyone from his year except Thor, who had been his only friend for the longest time. His social media accounts are private, and his profile picture shows only his face, the same across all accounts. If anyone had bothered to look him up this past decade, all they’d have been able to surmise is that he finally grew into his jaw. Also, his nose. And his ears. And his eyebrows.

In short, almost no one from back then knows jack shit about him, and that’s perfectly fine. He didn’t get this far just to prove himself to those people. Okay, so maybe some of the things he’s done had originally been born out of spite, but that’s beside the point. He was just a mouthy, skinny kid back then, riddled with a series of health problems that everyone thought would kill him before he hit twenty. He’s still mouthy and not always the poster boy for health, but he’d like to think he’s got a better handle on his temper, and these days, no one would recognize him, not even if they were trapped in the same train car during rush hour.

He likes it that way. He isn’t tied down by his past. High school was hell; he’s _glad_ it’s behind him. Those years are better off forgotten.

He’s got nothing to prove.

“I’m not going,” he says, throwing out the invitation.

Then digs it out of the trash a mere ten minutes later.

*

Sam makes fun of him from the second he finds out to the moment he gets to gleefully see Steve off. It’s a crisp, clear spring morning in D.C., perfect for driving. Depending on the traffic, he’ll hit Manhattan around midday, leaving him plenty of time to stew in his hotel room before crossing the river to meet his Ma for dinner—if he’s already made the drive, he might as well visit. Maybe she’ll be able to clear the rain clouds from over his head.

It’s unlikely, but one can always hope.

“Bye, honey!” Sam calls from the porch with an exaggerated, royal wave. “Don’t forget to text us!” At his side, his husband pretends to wipe away tears, faux-blubbering about Steve having grown up so fast, oh, where had the time gone. 

Steve shoots them a one-handed New York salute before kick-starting his motorcycle, and Sam returns it doubly, miming obscenities as Steve drives off. There’s a reason they’re best friends, and the mutual fuck-withery is at the very heart of it.

It’s a long and tedious drive. For some reason or other, the roads are clogged, everybody fleeing D.C. to go north for the weekend, and Steve gets stuck behind multiple Sunday drivers. He refrains from yelling at them (but not from quietly and bitterly cussing them out under his breath).

When he finally hits the Holland Tunnel into Manhattan, he considers heading straight for his Ma’s. She and her husband Abraham would welcome him with open arms and sympathetic ears. Int the end, that’s exactly why Steve doesn’t go; if he went, he’d never go to the hotel. If he doesn’t stay at the hotel, he won’t go to the reunion. But he’s fucking committed now, come hell or high water. It’s never too late to win at high school (shut up, he knows it’s stupid, but fuck it).

Purely for convenience’s sake, he’s made a reservation at a more-or-less upscale hotel near Washington Square Park. The reunion event (because _yes_ , it is an _event_ , not just a buffet-and-drinks kinda thing) will be held there, because no rational adult wants to hang out at a high school after graduation, not if they don’t work there.

Not even when the school is the kind of fancy institution that Steve had attended near the West Village, a choice based less on proximity and more on the fact that he’d been offered a scholarship _and_ that fact that attending would open the door to better prospects in the long run. The half-hour train ride each morning really hadn’t endeared the process to him, and neither had most of the students. Or the teachers. The only saving grace had been Mr. Phillips and Thor.

Really, it’s a wonder Steve made it through.

He parks the Harley in a four-story garage across the street, slings his saddlebags over his shoulder, and walks into the lobby like a man headed for the gallows. Why are ritzy hotels always so god-awful? No, really, it’s like they’re decorated to entice some kind of billionaire dictator to invade them, and there are only two kinds of employees in attendance; those who will turn up their noses at you if you’re wearing anything less than a suit, and those who have seen hell and would happily sell you to Satan for just one moment of respite. 

A woman of the latter type is at the front desk, which makes check-in go all the more smoothly. She wants Steve to get out of her face, and he wants to brood in peace, so really, it’s a match made in heaven. Despite her fixed smiled, Steve can tell she’s tired, and he makes sure to be as polite as possible.

Once he gets his keycard, he heads straight for the elevator, rejecting the offer of having his bags brought up. Everything’s fine and dandy, easy-peasy. Solitude is within reach. And that’s when God decides to punish him for his hubris.

There Steve is, in his motorcycle leathers, hair all mussed and sweaty from his helmet, looking like death warmed over, and the first thing from the past that he comes face to face with when the elevator doors slide open is Bucky Barnes.

Bucky is, or had been, rather… well. Steve doesn’t know that much about him, not now and not back then, at least not anything that mattered. Bucky had been popular, charming, and handsome, the star of the baseball team and a straight-A student besides, while Steve had spent more time in detention than he did in his actual classes. They hadn’t moved in the same circles; Bucky had never gone out of his way to fuck with Steve, or even said a bad word about him, so they hadn’t had reason to get in a fight either. 

And yet. _Yet_. It had never really been all that clear, but Bucky had always seemed uncomfortable in Steve’s presence. Why that was is anyone’s guess. Could’ve been because his girlfriend Natasha had absolutely despised Steve ( _also_ for reasons unknown), and Bucky had just taken her side. Could’ve been homophobia (Steve and Thor spent most of their high school years being mistaken for a couple, a rumor greatly helped along by Thor’s effusive and tactile nature. And their queerness, of course. That definitely played a role). Or, he could’ve just thought Steve was a pain in the ass. He wouldn’t have been the first.

Either way, Bucky used to avoid Steve like the plague.

And Steve had… well. He had maybe, sorta forced the issue. Just a little bit. His impulse control back then had been near non-existent. So, when he’d first noticed that Bucky would look away from him so quickly his neck-bones crackled, he had started actively seeking him out. If they were to pair up in class, Steve would turn to Bucky and announce himself as his partner before anyone else, no ifs or buts about it. Bucky hadn’t said a thing, just avoided eye-contact and resigned himself to his fate. Those were the only times he ever spoke to Steve, and it had all been related to the task at hand.

A few weeks of that and Steve had gotten bored. After one last outburst (“what’s your problem, man?” “I don’t have a problem.”) he’d let Bucky be. Well. Mostly. _What_? He had _eyes_. Bucky was a little hard to ignore, not just because he was a vital part of the student collective, but because he’d been… well.

Steve would’ve called him beautiful, if anyone had ever asked. Good thing no one but Thor had done so; that way, Steve’s little infatuation could remain his secret shame. It wasn’t the ‘attracted to boys’ part that tripped him up, more the ‘attracted to a possible-homophobe’ part, which was unacceptable, and Steve had forced it the fuck down whenever it reared its ugly head.

Standing in front of him now, he knows he was wrong: Bucky wasn’t beautiful then. But he sure as hell is now.

Steve almost doesn’t recognize him. From under his chubby boyhood cheeks, a set of cheekbones fit for a god have been unearthed. Like Steve, he’s grown into his shoulders—and what shoulder’s they are! This man could bench-press a _tank_. There’s stubble on his jaw and his dark hair is long, the top-half pulled into a bun. He’s just come from the hotel gym, is in a sweat-stained compression shirt and a pair of basketball shorts, a reusable bottle in one hand, tangled headphones in the other.

But the most obvious change? Apart from what appears to be a goddamned metal hand—or is it the whole arm? His shirt creases oddly around his shoulder—that makes Steve’s stomach roil with terrible, no-good shock, Bucky Barnes has the look of a man who’s been through untold horrors. His eyes, always deep-set and heavy-lidded, have grown hard and cold. And as if that wasn’t enough, he’s backed into one corner of the elevator, a prime spot for watching the doors and keeping himself clear of sneak-attacks.

This man is, or was, a soldier, or Steve will eat his metaphorical hat.

He looks about as friendly as a growling tiger, and yet Steve has never wanted to cozy up to anyone more than he does in this moment (his pecs look soft, dammit, and those thighs? Excellent pillows for his head. And his hair? _Outstanding_ , 10/10 would pet. Fuck the sweat, Steve would rub himself all over Bucky). 

While Steve stands there gaping, Bucky sizes him up. Not the way Steve is used to being sized up nowadays, the _holy fuck, fuck me_ double-take. Bucky’s gaze lingers on his hands and his shoulders, then flicks to his face and away. Then back, surprised, and holy fuck, his glare could reduce empires to ashes. He _definitely_ recognizes Steve.

The reunion hasn’t even officially started and it’s already going downhill.

Bucky’s murder-face snaps Steve out of his stupefied ogling. He hurries into the elevator just before the doors close, taking the opposite corner. The button for the twelfth floor is already lit up; Bucky and he are on the same floor. _Thanks, Satan_.

The ride is painfully silent, and Steve should just leave it like that. But Bucky’s presence has only added to the spite that’s fueled Steve all his life, and Steve Rogers has never met a challenge he didn’t want to dive into head first, so he turns to Bucky with a polite smile. “Hey.”

Like the good ol’ days, Bucky isn’t looking at him. “Hey.”

“I don’t know if you remember me,” Steve says, overtly friendly like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Bucky’s eyes narrow. “We went to high school together. I’m Steve Rogers.” And holds out his hand, because why not tickle the rudely-awoken bear now that you’ve already gone through the trouble of poking him?

From the incredulous—or, at least Steve _thinks_ it’s incredulous, could also just be murderous rage—look on Bucky’s face, it’s clear that he knows exactly what Steve is doing. He eyes the palm stretched out towards him, and for a moment, Steve’s certain he’s going to get punched.

But then, miracle of miracles, Bucky shakes it briefly, turns slightly more towards Steve (though still avoiding his eyes). “I know. I remember you.” A beat. “You used to be smaller.” He winces, flicks an embarrassed glance at Steve’s face, skitters away just as quick.

Steve hums. Had that been said in any other way than this slightly uncertain tone (and God, Bucky’s voice is still so soft, just a little deeper now, how is that possible?), Steve would’ve gone for the throat. He’s not ashamed of who he was (well, mostly; he can admit to some mistakes. He _knows_ he was an asshole, even if his heart was in the right place most of the time), but the incredulous awe that most people react with when they find out is just… it’s fucking _awful._ His disabilities are still very much there, they’re just mostly invisible now.

People tend to ignore that entirely.

It’s like they think his bigger, healthier body just… happened to him. Like he hit a magical growth-spurt and poof! A beefcake emerged. Like he didn’t go through multiple experimental surgeries, diet changes, medication, therapy, and a shitload of bullheadedness to get to this point? Steve has _worked_ for everything he has, thank you very much, from his health to his job to his home.

“You still go by Bucky?” he prods, curious now.

Bucky shrugs. For a guy with a resting murder-face, he’s being really patient with Steve’s obvious prodding. Maybe he’s just shy now. “Sometimes. Depends. If you wanna, you can use it.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open.

Bucky lets Steve out first, and Steve strides down the hall, pretending that he doesn’t notice how tense Bucky is, how suspiciously he eyes everything around him. When did he get back? From the war, that is. Sam and Riley, too, are ex-soldiers, Air Force, and they both have PTSD, so this behavior isn’t entirely unfamiliar to Steve. He’s never seen it this pronounced, though. (Should he thank Bucky for his service? What if he’s wrong, and Bucky’s just naturally distrustful these days?) 

No more words are exchanged, only an awkward nod before they both disappear into their rooms. They’re a few doors down from one another, on opposite sides of the hall.

Steve’s room has the same butt-ugly rich-people aesthetic as the lobby, all white and beige and _don’t sit on that, you’ll stain the upholstery._ It’s not a suite, but you sure couldn’t tell from the price; Steve had paid it anyway. He can afford to nowadays. And again, if he’d chosen to stay at his Ma’s, he would’ve come up with some dumbass excuse not to go at the last moment.

There’s a big bed, a desk, a little group of armchairs, a minibar, and a resplendent view of the park—which is the best thing about it, really. The drapes are heavy and look like they’ve been illegally liberated from a European castle, and the room smells like lemony cleaner. The in-suite bathroom has a bathtub that makes Steve rub his hands with glee. He’ll have to hit up Lush (he has a weakness for bath bombs, he’s not ashamed of it, fuck you, Sam, don’t think Steve hasn’t noticed the wide array of ‘massage oils’ in the cupboard).

He throws himself on the bed (it’s _so soft_ ) and stares up at the ceiling for a while, settling back into his blue mood. How dare Bucky Barnes show up to the reunion looking like that? _Steve_ is supposed to be winning this, he can’t just swan in with his pretty hair and barrel chest and reduce everyone to mush with a single unimpressed scowl. That’s _Steve’s_ prerogative, fuck you very much.

He fumbles for his phone.

**Captain Fight-Me** : _fuck Bucky Barnes_

**Flyboy** : _Am I supposed to know who that is? Also, did you get there okay?_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _got here fine_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _he’s one of the guys I went to school with_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _pretty sure I’ve mentioned him_

**Flyboy** : _… he’s not the one who made you realize you were bi, right?_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _NO_

**Flyboy** : _HOLY FUCK IT IS_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _fuck you I knew before him_

**Flyboy** : _dude. DUDE._

Steve bares his teeth in disgust, opens another chat.

**Captain Fuck-You** : _I’m boooooorrrreeeddd when are you getting here_

**Thunder Thighs** : _don’t get arrested. I’ll be there around midnight_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _why does everyone assume I get arrested all the time_

**Thunder Thighs** : _why do YOU think everyone assumes that_

Steve elects to ignore that and goes to unpack. He’s not got much with him, just enough for the weekend, some clothes, some toiletries, his mini-drugstore kit with his meds, EpiPen, contact lens solution, and inhaler, his spare glasses, and a pair of dress shoes. He’s got a suit at his Ma’s, leftover from the last time he was home; he’ll pick it up later, maybe take an Uber back to the hotel to prevent creases. Also, he’s lazy. 

It takes all of five minutes to get his things sorted, and he’s back to square one, which is: bored. And wired out of his mind. He absolutely blames Bucky for this. Steve was perfectly set for a good, somber brood before he saw him. Now his concentration is shot to hell and he’s going to jitter right out of his skin.

He changes into workout clothes and heads back out.

And because God, or Satan, or whomever is in charge of pestering Steve, isn’t done with him, when the elevator arrives, Natasha Romanoff steps out.

Has everyone from high school grown outrageously beautiful? Will Steve need to show up in a speedo to win this? This is unbelievable. Also: how _dare_ they. This is his victory tour. _His!_

“Hello, Steve,” she says, a little smirk on her face. She doesn’t look at all surprised to see him, or even bemused that he looks like he now does. Which: _rude_. And: _how_. Then, a rational thought (which: _outstanding_ ): Bucky must have told her.

Steve, because he’s never met a grudge he didn’t like to hold, nods at her, barely polite. “Natasha.” He tries to move past her.

“You here for the reunion?” she asks.

Steve stares. Natasha Romanoff has never had a polite conversation with him in her life, why the hell is she starting now? Whatever she’d had against him in high school had been enough to put him on her shit-list for four whole years, a distaste that manifested in dirty looks, thinned lips, and the odd, impatient sneer. He’d never done and thing to her and yet she’d hated him. He would be fine only rubbing his success in her face from afar, not talk to her, but here they are.

Because Steve’s Ma didn’t raise him to be outright rude, he forces a reply. “Yes.”

“Mm. Me, too.” She cocks her head; if Steve didn’t know better, he’d say she looks pleased to see him. But he does know better. What the fuck is going on. “You know, we should talk later.”

Barely restraining himself from blurting out “no”, he makes a noncommittal noise and gently edges his way past her and into the elevator, pressing the button for the basement extra hard. Even as the doors slide closed, Natasha’s smugly pleased face lingers in his mind’s eye.

*

A brutal work-out, a masturbation session in the shower that in no way involves pouty lips, thick thighs, and long, dark hair, and a nap later, it’s almost time to head out to his Ma’s.

New York City in April is not to be trusted when it comes to the weather, swinging wildly between _why is it so hot, Jesus, I’m dying_ and _I need to get up at five and shovel my driveway because it’s fucking snowing_ and though the meteorologists try, it’s never truly predictable. For now, it seems like it’s going to be a cool, breezy night, so Steve dresses accordingly.

With his fluffy hair and neat beard, he barely needs to extend any effort to look cuddly, but he likes to emphasize that idea; it makes people feel more at ease around him, ignore his height and brawn. He chooses a soft, blue sweater and worn, gray jeans, layering his leather jacket on top and stepping into his boots.

There’d been nobody in the elevator when he made his way back from his workout, a gift from above. He was really hoping that streak would hold. But, of course, it doesn’t.

And, of course, it’s Bucky.

Seriously. Anyone else and Steve would be fine. _Anyone._ Even Brock fucking Rumlow and his merry band of douchebags. But Bucky is the one guy—the one _person_ —who could successfully fuck with Steve’s resolve without even trying.

And standing there with his hair up, in his yellow turtleneck and slacks, meeting Steve’s eyes properly? They’re so pale; starlight-eyes. Steve would argue that anyone would be knocked on their asses by it. Bucky even appears to have shaved, or at least trimmed his stubble back a little, and he doesn’t look nearly as world-weary as he had earlier.

Steve resigns himself to another tense elevator ride and swears not to fantasize too much about Bucky’s ass in those slacks later. Meaning: _one_ fantasy. Maybe one and half. Or ten. (Jesus fuck, is this where he’s at already? Sam was right for laughing at him).

“Going down?”

Bucky nods, lets Steve press the button for lobby and takes his position in the corner like before.

The ride seems longer. A few more people get on a couple floors down, then exits on the fourth floor where the dining hall is. Steve and Bucky end up shoved into the corner together, shoulders an inch apart. Bucky smells _good_. Cologne, something pine-y and fresh. Those fantasies? They are multiplying by the second.

“You going to your Ma’s?”

Steve’s head whips around. Bucky’s not really looking at him, eyes somewhere around his shoulder. He’s holding himself stiffly, actively leaning away from the other people; Steve fights down the urge to move in front of him, block the others out a little. A couple of women eye them both blatantly, tittering when Steve notices them. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

Bucky shrugs. “Figured she might still live here. She’s not to far from my folks, you know?”

Steve doesn’t know. Abstractly, he’d been aware that he and Bucky were both from Brooklyn; used to be, Steve sometimes saw him on the train or at York Street Station, and sure, somewhere it registered that they might not live too far apart, but he never really thought about it much.

He _didn’t_.

When Steve doesn’t follow up on that, Bucky fidgets. The press of people has brought out his resting murder-face in full bloom, enough so that the women don’t try to approach either him or Steve. He breathes a nearly-indistinguishable sigh of relief when they’re finally alone for the last stretch.

“Nat said she saw you.”

Why is he still talking? Not that Steve minds, but… _why_? “Yeah, we ran into each other.” And then, because he can’t help himself, “You still together?”

Curiously, Bucky tenses again, even if his tone remains light. “Wasn’t much good to her. We’re just friends. More than I deserve really.”

Why does that make something uncoil in Steve’s belly? It doesn’t mean shit that Bucky’s single. He’s not going there. He’s not that stupid—or that desperate. _Don’t do it, hoe._ “Don’t know about that.” _Stop talking. Why are you talking?_ “You always seemed good together.” _Oh great, that doesn’t sound like you used to watch them. Bold move, asshole._ At least it’s the truth; Steve may not have liked Natasha much, but he could be gracious enough to admit that they had made a striking couple.

“I suppose we did,” Bucky says slowly. He’s making some rather intense eye contact with the security camera, like he wants it to develop weapons-grade lasers and take him out where he stands. “Got good at pretending.”

Steve frowns. “Pretending?”

There’s a beat. Then, before the doors slide open, Bucky turns, looks him straight in the eye, and says, “I’m really fucking gay, Steve.”

And then just walks out.


	2. SATURDAY, part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the Reunion commences and the first events play out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this is gonna be more than three chapters, 'cus otherwise this chapter would be... long as hell.  
> im guessing... maybe five chapters in total then? With one of them being basically no plot, all lovin'.

**Captain Fuck-You** : _promise me_

**Thunder Thighs** : _sure_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _THOR YOU GOTTA BE SERIOUS_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _I AM HERE TO WIN THE REUNION I CANNOT AFFORD TO BE DISTRACTED_

**Thunder Thighs** : _you’re being very dramatic_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _you don’t understand_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _all he’d need to do is give me ONE (1) LOOK_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _and I’d get on my knees for him so fast I’d crack the fucking pavement_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _they’d be hearing the echoes in goddamn Australia_

**Thunder Thighs** : _wow_

**Thunder Thighs** : _im telling Sam_

*

Saturday morning, Steve puts on his game-face. He will not be distracted. Not even by deep-set, gray eyes, soft hair, and a shit brickhouse body. Steve is the boss of his own libido, not the other way around. Victory will be his. Yes, he put together a playlist for this. Yes, it has five replays of _Eye of the Tiger._ It was necessary. _What about it_.

He is a _man_ with a _plan._ (Is there a song about that? _Something-something maaaaaan wiiiiiith a plaaaaaan_ ).

He’d gone for a run first thing when he woke up, lapping around the park, and is now showered, shaved, and dressed to impress—but still leaving room for improvement. It’s the early innings; he’s got time. He’ll let his baby blues and boyish blush do the groundwork, hit them with a dose of humble-brag, and then sweep in like a vengeful Greek god and render them all speechless at the evening event (which god though? Apollo? But Steve doesn’t like Apollo. He _is_ the most fabulous though… fuck it, he’s Apollo. The only other option who matches that level of pettiness is Zeus and _nope_ ).

His hair is combed into a neat side-part, and he’s in a checkered brown-and-charcoal button-down with a dark brown tie, a pair of fitted black chinos, and nice shoes. Over-all, the look he’s going for is _nerdy PA meets frat bro_ and he is _nailing_ it.

The invitation had said to dress casually for the morning and afternoon activities (yeah, right. Steve won’t be surprised if someone shows up in a full suit), and that fancy dress should be saved for the evening event. What’s the evening event, you ask? It’s a goddamn, motherfucking prom-themed party, because senior prom hadn’t been bad enough. Side note: who was responsible for this? And more importantly: can Steve be acquitted in a court of law for keying their car?

The early schedule, on the other hand, is ominously vague. It just says ‘activities.’ Sam and Riley had made horror-scenario bingo plates before Steve left, and they’re waiting with bated breath for the results.

Steve heads for the door. There’s an hour and a half for breakfast before the shitstorm hits, and he plans to get as much out of that as possible. Thor will join him when he’s awake; being the father of two hellions spawn, he has become practiced at sleeping through minor apocalypses and will not be woken by his best friend breaking down his door, not even if Thor himself was on fire.

Lost in thought, he nearly mows down Natasha, standing right outside his door and poised to knock. A less graceful person would’ve ended up on the floor, but Natasha is quick enough on her feet (and with her hands) to grab onto Steve and keep them both upright, moving his bulk around like it’s nothing. She’s _tiny_. _How_ does she do it. _What_ is her secret.

Also: how dare she look nice, this is Steve’s show. 

He is not, however, about to blurt any of that out, she’s already got too much of an advantage, so he just apologizes profusely and makes sure she’s alright.

“I’m fine, I’m okay,” she swears, elegantly pushing her red curls out of her eyes and beaming up at him. Why is she smiling? What does she know? Is she here to kill him? (In other news: Thor was maybe right about Steve being overdramatic). “Lookin’ good, Rogers.”

Might as well practice that whole humble-thing now. He shrugs, looks down and lets his blush do the rest. It makes her grin. And apparently invite herself in, because she strolls right past him without so much as a by-your-leave and shuts the door, settling into a much more serious mien.

“So,” she starts, perching delicately in one of the armchairs. “Like I said yesterday, I think we need to clear the air.”

Steve doesn’t need to do jack-shit, but he can’t quite figure out how to go around throwing her out of his room, so he submits himself to the torture and sits down across from her. “No offense,” he says, meaning _full offense._ Has anyone ever said ‘no offense’ and actually meant it? “But I don’t really have anything to say.”

She nods. “Oh, yeah, no, I didn’t expect you to. This is on me.” A deep breath. “So. I was a total bitch to you in high school, and I’m sorry. I can’t take it back, and I don’t expect you to accept my apology at this point, but I wanted to try anyway.”

It’s difficult to say which of them is the more discomfited. Natasha, hellbent on delivering her apology, meeting his eyes unflinchingly, her shoulders back like she’s expecting to be yelled at; or Steve, frowning, expecting the rug to be pulled from under him any moment now.

“Uh. Thanks. I guess.”

Natasha doesn’t fidget, but something tells him that she wants to. “Is there a way for me to make amends?”

Honestly? The fact that she’s sought him out specifically to apologize is already thawing him, but he can’t give her an inch just yet. He might be a stubborn bastard who can hold a grudge forever, but he’s soft at his core and admires honesty a great deal. Natasha has matured, just like he has, and he could grow to like the steel in her eyes and conviction in her voice.

He hesitates, then blurts: “ _Why_ were you a bitch though? What did I ever do to you?”

She purses her lips, tilts her head a bit. “I can’t tell you.”

“Seriously?”

“Look, it’s not that I don’t want to. The most I can say is that my behavior didn’t actually have shit to do with you.”

“What, you had a shitty homelife and I was just convenient?” he can’t help but sneer, a little pissy.

Her eyes flash. Her smirk is sharp. “That, too.” Steve winces; _nicely done, Rogers._ “But mostly it was just… Let’s make a deal, hm? If you don’t find out the full reason before Monday, I’ll show up wherever the hell you live and get on my knees to beg for you forgiveness… but I don’t think that’s gonna be necessary. You’re a smart guy; you’ll figure it out.”

“Can’t we just skip that?”

“Unfortunately, no. I’m not the only one who gets caught in the crosshairs of this whole mess, okay?”

Steve frowns harder. “So you hated me because of something someone else did?”

“More or less,” she admits, wiggling her hand in a so-so motion.

“You realize that doesn’t make a lick of sense, right?”

A more genuine smile spreads across her face; she’s the kind to smile with her eyes as well as her mouth. “Oh, trust me, I know. But you’ll know when you know, you know.” She gets up. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Steve. And again: I’m sorry.”

She swans out, leaving him even more befuddled than before she’d walked back into his orbit.

Goddamn Natasha Romanoff and Bucky Barnes messing with his plans.

*

There are no encounters in the elevator, for which he is grateful. He _is._ (Though… maybe he wouldn’t have been totally averse to meeting a certain tall, buff, pale-eyed someone. He hasn’t seen Bucky since the whole _I’m really fucking gay, Steve_ , and okay, maybe he’d spent half the night fantasizing about a different outcome of that conversation than Steve gaping like a fish, one that included into a complex scenario with a broken-down elevator, lusty cabin-fever, and Bucky’s head thrown back in desire and Steve’s mouth wide open for a very different purpose than gaping).

He spends the elevator ride banishing those thoughts; his pants are getting a little tight.

The elevator halts, and he steps out. There’s a large section reserved for the Class of ’09 in the breakfast hall, a large, private room. Beyond the doors, Steve glimpses a lush, inviting buffet calling his name in a siren song of smells. He is going to overdose on waffles. There better be strawberries, too.

However, before he can assail the buffet like Attila the Hun assailing the Great Wall of China, a perky brunette pops up in front of him. She’s vaguely familiar, but it’s not until he spots her name-badge (decorated with all four yearbook photos, freshman to senior year) that he fully places her: Marianne Westbrook, President of the Student Council in Steve’s time and one of (if not the sole) backbones of this reunion.

“Hi!” she squeals at him. He fights not to cringe; this is her normal speaking voice. “Welcome, Class of ’09 Alumnus! May I have your name, please? I’ll sign you right in and get you started.”

_Showtime._ “I’m Steve Rogers.”

Marianne nods perkily and quickly rifles through a box of badges. How does she have so much energy? When she grabs Steve’s badge, she pulls it up, frowns, looks up at him, looks back down, back up, once, twice, then flushes all the way to the roots of her hair.

While she stutters through instructions—please stay seated after breakfast, information about the first activities will be forthcoming—Steve pins the badge to his breast pocket. Like Marianne’s, his badge is… ‘decorated’ with yearbook photos on the front, showcasing Steve during his slightly unfortunate emo-phase, the brace-face, and, of course, the one in which he had only barely survived pneumonia the week before the picture was taken.

On the back, there are two numbered, colored squares, one green, the other yellow. Marianne assures him—slightly dazed as she tries not to drool over his shoulders—that all will all be explained after breakfast and sends him on his way. She can’t quite keep herself from checking out his ass as he walks away.

Steve restrains an evil smirk. Barely.

Most of breakfast passes in much the same manner; he gets ogled at the buffet, makes sure to stand in a way that highlights the span of his shoulders and the taper of his waist (and incidentally also the swell of his ass; he works hard for that, you bet he’s gonna rub it in everyone’s faces (maybe even literally if Bucky— _focus, Rogers!_ )) A few times, he overhears, “who’s that?”, “that’s _Steve Rogers_ ”, “ _no_!?”, “ _yes_!” followed by tittering. No one has yet dared come up to him, but he smiles as invitingly and politely as he can at everyone. It’s a decidedly fake smile, but who can even tell?

Is this what it felt like to be popular in high school? If so, he’s already winning.

More people trickle in, more chatter arises. For her part, Natasha just smirks like she’s party to his little scheme, taking a seat at his otherwise solitary table. One by one, his table fills up, some (like, two) more welcome than others.

Thor draws much attention when he arrives, fresh as a daisy and wired from a full night’s sleep. Like Steve, he is immediately showered in admiring looks; in school, Thor had been tall and broad, but not really grown into himself just yet, and his looks hadn’t garnered him much attention beyond ‘holy fuck, is that a human mountain?’. He’d also been so kind he’d been thought naïve (if not stupid), had an enquiring mind that fixated beyond what most were willing to indulge, and a loyal, fiery temperament that matched Steve’s perfectly.

In short, he’d been like a bullheaded mastiff puppy to Steve’s terrier tenacity.

Now, he’s gorgeous, all long hair and snuggly, beefy muscles. If it hadn’t been for his exquisite wingman skills, there’d be a fair likelihood that Thor would steal the spotlight, but he’s as adept at redirecting attention as he is at seizing it in the first place. There’s a reason the Folklore courses at UNM are over-booked these days, and it’s got everything to do with Dr. Odinson, Ph.D.

Someone less welcome at the table is Tony Stark.

Mostly because he plants his ass in the seat right across from Steve and immediately goes, “Are you on steroids? You can tell me, I’ll keep it secret. What? Did I say something wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Stark is not, actually, on Steve’s shit-list, but if he keeps going on like that he soon will be. In high school, they hadn’t had much to do with one another, not beyond the odd class discussion that somehow always ended with both of them in detention for ‘disturbing the peace’ and ‘creating a hostile environment— _stop slapping him_! What are you, _five_?’ Stark had been too smart for their small corner of the world, but curiously reluctant to leave it; it had lent itself to instigating experiments, arguments, and sometimes all-out brawls. And Steve was a damn idiot with a short fuse.

But strangely, Steve has never been quite sure what to think about him, despite how annoying Stark could be. But he’d always changed his mind, seemingly at random, never truly seemed to fully believe in what he was saying at any given moment and was so desperate for attention of any kind that he would’ve thrown himself down the stairs for just a single look. It would’ve been too easy to dislike him.

Ten years and a very public disowning later, he hasn’t changed a bit. 

In his wake is Bruce Banner, another too-clever person Steve never really had anything to do with. Thankfully, he appears to be a pro at managing Stark, so he rises a few notches in Steve’s estimation every time he derails Stark from some hypothesis or other about Steve’s body. (Despite having planned on his body being the first thing he needed to show off, actually having someone commenting on it is… not that pleasant, to be honest).

And then there’s Bucky.

He walks in and Steve sits up straighter—Thor kicks him in the shin and mutters at him under his breath, sounding highly amused. Scanning the room, Bucky spots Natasha quickly and makes a beeline for their table. He pauses when he gets there, shifting his weight a little; there’s a few chairs left, but none of them seems to be the one that he wants. With every second he stays standing, his shoulders curl forward in intense awareness, until finally, he takes the chair next to Natasha, turning it so that he can have his back to the wall.

“Good morning James,” Natasha greets warmly, kissing his cheek.

“’Morning,” Bucky replies softly. Then, leaning around Natasha. “Hi, Steve.”

Steve, losing every singly ounce of cool he’s ever hoped to fake, nearly flips the table in his haste to return the greeting. Thor saves them all at the last moment, slamming his palms down on the table to keep it on the ground. 

So much for not being distracted.

“Good morning, Barnes,” Tony says loudly, absolutely giddy for some reason. “Can I look at your arm? Pretty please?”

Bucky turns slowly, stares at him.

Tony scoots down in his chair. Bruce snickers.

*

He’s just… God, he’s just so pretty.

What is Steve supposed to do? Just ignore Bucky? After he’d gone out of his way (kind of) to greet him? After their conversation last night (if you could call it that)? Maybe he wants to make amends, same as Natasha does, and for this, Steve _does_ have something to say. Mostly ‘sorry I went out of my way to get in your face for like, two years straight’ or something. ‘Or, well, not _straight,_ since, you know, ha-ha. I’m incredibly bi and you are—’ _stop talking, Rogers_.

Despite the constant glowering and glaring, Bucky has clearly made an effort. He’s shaved back his stubble (should Steve mourn? Would that be inappropriate?), tied his hair back in a bun, and his clothes are neat and clearly carefully chosen. Worn (tight, holy fuck) jeans and a darkish, yellowish turtleneck sweater, the sleeves pulled down to cover as much of his arms as possible. One of the sleeves has a tiny, little hole, as if Bucky’s been trying to put his thumb through it.

Is it hot in here? Jesus.

Next to him, Thor eats his yoghurt like his best friend isn’t experiencing the emotional equivalent of Pompeii’s destruction. On Steve’s other side, Natasha is doing the same, though she’s also grinning into her eggs like she knows something they don’t. More importantly, she’s blocking Steve’s view of Bucky, and he honestly doesn’t know whether to thank her for that or not.

_Head in the fucking game, Rogers_!

He’s not supposed to be thinking about Bucky. Or looking at him, or, or trying to smell him, or something weird and decidedly stalkerish like that—but Bucky does look like the kind of guy who just smells _good,_ you know? Like he smells a little sweet, a little dark, a little warm. Like something that will make you want to bury your face in the space between his neck and shoulder, in his chest, in the backs of his goddamn knees. Steve wants to rub his beard all over him like an overgrown cat and leave red-rubbed skin in his wake. Wants to—

“May I have your attention please!” Marianne calls, knocking Steve right out of his daydream and making every single person wince from the sheer volume that tiny woman is capable of producing without so much as a bullhorn. Imagine a vuvuzela—that can talk.

Marianne’s on a small dais with another woman by her side. Steve thinks she might have been a cheerleader or something like that? Callie… Or something. She looks quite calm, not at all like Marianne was just one decibel from bursting her eardrums.

Callie, unlike Marianne, does need a microphone. “Thank you all for coming, it’s great to see so many of you again,” she says, possibly lying through her teeth. Only people who liked themselves in high school are truly happy to go back, and those people are clearly sadists, and Callie just doesn’t seem the type. “Before we begin, let us thank…”

_Yada-yada-yada, please consider donating to the alumni fund—_ American educational institutions are truly something else. Pay to attend them, pay extra to attend somewhere fancy, then pay after for no reason whatsoever. Sorry: _donate_. Curiously, the schools most focused on donations are the Ivy Leagues. Wonder why.

“And now, for the instructions,” Marianne continues, mega-watt smile blinding everyone from here to Canada. “Since so many of us could attend, we thought it best to spread out a bit. As you have no doubt noticed, there are two little number brackets on the backs of your badges. Those brackets indicate which group you are in before and after lunch. Right now, we’re focused on Bracket One. Green Team, please assemble at…”

It’s a mess and a half as people find their way to their assembly points.

Steve is on the Green Team for the first half, thankfully joined by Thor and the rest of their table. (Bucky is still glaring at everything and not making eye-contact with Steve. Would twisting himself into a pretzel to get a peek at his pretty eyes be overkill? _Yes. Yes, it would, shut up brain_ ).

They and the rest of their team—some twenty people in total—are hustled to a small salon on the floor above. There’s a lot of leather, a lot of chintz, like a tea salon meets a men’s-only library. The little sets of table-and-two-chairs are set up as if they’re going to play chess against one another.

A bored attendant—because Callie and Marianne both need to participate, also—oversees them. He bears a striking resemblance to Mr. Phillips, Steve’s old history teacher, just half a century younger, and he sounds about as unimpressed as Phillips ever did. “ _This is the Speed Re-Meeting event_ ,” he reads out dourly from a cue card. “ _It’s like speed dating, but without the pressure to impress!_ ”

Steve cracks his knuckles. So it begins. Eyes on the prize— _not_ Bucky’s thighs, Jesus _wept_ —he’s ready to blow this out of the water. Victory will be his. His!

“Tone down the supervillain laugh,” Thor tells him.

“I’m not doing the supervillain laugh!”

“You’re _thinking_ it.”

*

“So you work at the Smithsonian?” Isabelle asks, leaning across the table and blinking her long lashes coyly at him. She’d never paid him a lick of attention in school, not that he ever wanted it then. “You’re a curator?”

“Nah,” Steve shrugs, coy right back. “I just do a bit of upkeep, you know, it’s nothing much. Most of my day I spend trying not to get paint all over me, it’s not so fancy as all that.”

“So you could be like Neil in _White Collar_ if you wanted to?” Grant asks, eyeing Steve’s chest with more than passing interest.

“Oh, no, I’m sure I’m not that good,” he brushes off. “I can mimic fine, but that level of artistry? Whew. That’s some magic right there. I just try to keep a steady hand!

“Yeah, I guess I finally grew into my attitude, God, I was such a little shit, wasn’t I? I’ve been so lucky, I can’t even comprehend it myself.

“I’m not quite there yet, you know? I don’t know, I guess I’m a romantic, I don’t wanna rush into anything, I just wanna find the one.”

On and on and on it goes. He sounds like every douchebag he’s ever hated talking to, but it’s fucking working. People are falling all over themselves to ask about him, his life, his future. Little Stevie Rogers grown into a successful, wholesome, home-owning hunk—and single to boot! He’s prime real estate for everyone and their mother.

For the record: fuck yes could Steve take Neil Caffrey any day of the week.

As to the whole being single thing—best not to mention the mess with Peggy. They’d almost gotten married. Instead, they’d nearly destroyed one another. What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? The crash is so bright at first, it’s beautiful in its chaos. It fools you into thinking of creation, a big bang of happiness. Then, the dust falls, and you see the destruction all around them.

Two years later, and they can finally call each other friends again.

Steve is feeling warmed up now, all loose and easy. At this point, he’s pretty sure he could claim royal ancestry—acting like he was a little ashamed of it, of course, being so-and-so removed or whatever counts with royalty—and people would just accept it as the gospel truth.

And that’s when Bucky plops into the seat across from him.

Every word turns to ashes in his mouth. His brain is empty, dusty, dry. He bites back the instinct to show off, to say ‘to hell with it’, to giving in. All that ambiguity he’d felt in high school? Gone. Gone the second Bucky finally looked at him. God, he’s pathetic.

Bucky has both hands on the table, fingers steepled. There’s a moment of awkward silence before he visibly pulls himself up, meeting Steve’s eyes. “I’m a mechanic,” he says. “I live in Boston. I have a cat. Her name is Alpine.” Finished, he practically folds in on himself, breathing out slowly like he’d faced a firing squad rather than just Steve.

He’s got no clue what to say; copying Bucky is easier. “I’m an art restorer. I live in D.C. I don’t have any pets, but I think I’d like one. Alpine is a great name.”

Bucky nods, a shy little smile quirking up the side of his mouth. Steve clutches the table; his hands are sweaty. They’re quiet, just looking at one another. Bucky’s never looked at him for so long; it’s a goddamn safety hazard.

“Do you wanna see a picture of Alpine?”

“Absolutely!” Steve yells.

He is the smoothest motherfucker in this town.

*

For the next event, they’re loaded onto a little bus and driven from the hotel. Steve is a little suspicious of this; why do they need to leave? Where are they taken them? So help him God, if they’re taken to the high school and given a tour that conveniently ends at the building that they want donations for, he will bust through the wall like the Kool-Aid man, don’t test him.

They’re not taken to the high school.

“Please form groups of two,” they’re told before walking into the arena. “The winners will receive a goodie bag later tonight. Now, who wants to be Blue Team?”

“ _Us!_ ” Steve yells, snatching the paintball hoppers and dancing back to Thor. They’ve both had to borrow a change of clothes, just worn t-shirts and tac-pants, both rather unflattering. Since everyone is wearing them, it doesn’t matter much.

Natasha snatches up the Red Team’s hoppers and hands one to Bucky, smirking at Steve. “May the best snipers win,” she tells him.

“You’ll eat your words, Romanoff.”

“You tell yourself that, Rogers.”

This isn’t how Steve had thought he’d spent his reunion, but honestly? He’s feeling it. He’s _really_ feeling it. He gets to shoot paintballs at his former classmates—one of which is Brock Rumlow, Dickhead Supreme—and not get called out for it?

Oh, he is ready.

He and Thor strategize with nothing more than a wriggle of their brows and some ASL. They’ll find good cover, provide distractions in turns, letting the other score points before switching it around. They’ll be quick and deadly and win this shit.

It goes splendidly.

Resisting the urge to laugh evilly, Steve harries everyone in the large arena, weaving in and out of sight, sneaking up behind people when they least expect it. Before long, most people have at least three blue paint splotches somewhere on their bodies, and Steve and Thor are both clever enough to avoid critical hits. Steve’s got a bit of paint on his arm, a bit on his shin, but that’s it.

They’ve got this in the bag.

And that’s when someone shoots Steve right on the ass.

He squeals, jumping a foot in the air and smacking his palm on his injured butt cheek, outrage all over his face. His hand comes away red. Glancing around, he can’t see where the shot came from, not even when he sneaks out from behind the wall that had covered him so well until now.

He cautiously makes his way to a new hiding place.

And gets hit in the chest, right across his pecs.

Fuming and more than a little pissed-off, he spends the rest of the game getting paintballed by red pellets. _Only_ red pellets; everyone else he can avoid. But not Romanoff—or is it Bucky? But… they’d been making progress, why would Bucky do this to him?

Whoever it is, when it’s over, Steve’s got an untold number of paint splotches across his ass, on his inner thighs (how?), on his chest, shoulders, belly, and even a big one right across his crotch. It’s like he was targeted on purpose.

And they don’t even win, not even with Thor practically paint-free.

Steve storms up to Natasha, leader of the winning team, a painfully tight smile in place on his face. At her quirked brow, he forces himself to calm down. It was just a game. It’s okay to not win. (Really. _Really_ ). “Congrats,” he says. It’s only a little bit like torture. “You really got me.”

She pokes at a splotch on his shoulder. “I only got you twice.”

_What_. “Is that so?”

Bucky is returning his gun and the left-over pellets. Steve marches up to him, gets his attention, and waves at his… everything. God, Bucky got him good. His whole demeanor aptly communicates _what the shit?_

Bucky glances at him, looks away. He’s a little flushed. It’s beaut— _focus, Steve!_

“How the hell did you make those shots?” Steve demands, trying to cover his amazement with a good dose of outrage.

Bucky shrugs, metal hand twitching. “I was a sniper in the army. And you make a big target.”

“That’s so unfair I can’t even—wait, how the hell does this,” he gestures down at his thighs and incidentally also crotch. “‘Make a big target?’ My—Bucky, I could paint a whole wall with how much paint is on my ass.”

Bucky takes a step closer. “Big. Target.” He glances down to where Steve is still fluttering his hands around his groin. “I guess.” Raises his brows, the little shit.

Steve is going to punch him in this mouth. With his mouth. Gently. Continually.

And smother him with his thighs.

*

**Wilson Supreme** : _DO IT HOE_

**Captain Fuck-You** : _STOP ENABLING RILEY I NEED TO WIN FIRST_


	3. SATURDAY, part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there's a team-up, Steve is dramatic, and a second shot at prom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all.  
> i've entered Exam Hell today, so I can't quite promise when then next update will be. If you need me, I'll be in a corner, trying to concentrate on my paper but probably stress shopping books. I can be reached here or on tumblr: https://purpurred.tumblr.com/

Steve spends lunch either eyeing Bucky or mercilessly glorying in the attention he’s garnered from the rest of his former classmates. They all want to talk to him now that he’s handsome and successful, are practically falling over themselves to be by his side. Between him, Thor, and Natasha, their lunch table becomes _the_ place to sit.

Too bad it’s a small table. Also, Bucky’s murder-face keeps nearly everyone at bay.

“Any of you bringing dates for the dance tonight?” Natasha asks, her words and demeanor straight out of a teen movie. She knows it too, takes pleasure in reviving the feeling now that they’re all in better places. High school is a great game when there’s nothing at stake.

“My wife couldn’t get time off,” Thor answers regretfully. “Between work and the kids, we’re lucky _I_ even had the time.”

“I’m a free bird,” Stark says. He’s latched on to their little group like a lost duckling. Odds of losing him: negative three thousand. None of them mind too much; when he isn’t running his mouth, he’s kinder than you’d think a guy like him could ever be.

Steve frowns. “But, if you’re single… then who’s Pepper?”

“My assistant. Alas, I pleaded with her to come save me, but she has abandoned me to my fate. I should text her.” Stark has texted Pepper at least ten times in the last two minutes, a dopey look on his face. Steve is not going to judge.

How can he, when he was _this close_ to doing a bend-and-snap in the buffet line just because Bucky had a clear view of him? Elle Woods would despair of him.

“My girlfriend and I haven’t been together all that long, it might have been a little much,” Bruce hedges, ducking his head with earnest joy. 

“You and Betty finally had the exclusive-talk?” Stark asks.

“… I mean, kinda met her father already, so I’m guessing—”

“ _Brucey_! How could you not tell me? Betrayed by mine own science brother! _Abandoned_ —”

“What about you, Steve?” Natasha asks over the theatrics.

Bucky is very intently focused on his sandwich, picking out the arugula leaves as carefully as if he was unearthing a bomb.

Steve tries to look casual. “No, not at all. What about you?”

She softens. “My boyfriend is already here—he’s scouting out houses in Brooklyn and trying to be real secretive about it. But he left a draft of his Let’s-Move-In-Together Speech lying around, and I’m nosy, so I’ve been practicing my surprised face for when he asks.”

“That’s great, I’m happy for you, Natasha.” He almost means it to. Very unsubtly, he turns to Bucky. “And you, Buck?”

Bucky clenches the sandwich too hard, making it vomit filling everywhere. He’s blushing a little. God, he’s adorable. Like a teddy-bear. A Bucky-bear. Yes, Steve’s brain is short-circuiting, mind your business.

“No,” Bucky says softly.

Would it be tacky if Steve rubbed his hands together and did a victory lap around the dining hall? Probably. Entirely. (He’d do it in slow-motion, just for the hell of it. Thor would film it, distribute it to their friends, and play it at every major event in Steve’s life henceforth. It is the _only_ reason he doesn’t get up and do it).

*

Tragically parted from most of his group, but thankfully not Bucky, Steve heads for the conference room that Yellow Team has been assigned to for the next half of the day. Whatever hell awaits them there will be the last event before dinner. It’ll be a much more leisurely get-together than the paintballing had been.

The room isn’t very large, comparable to a medium-sized classroom. With people standing close all around him, Bucky retreats to the back wall, arms folded and scowl firmly in place. It discourages approach, but not so Steve; going by Bucky’s complete non-reaction to his presence, it’s probably okay that he’s standing this close. Bucky might even _want_ him close. Steve squirms (subtly. Hopefully).

“Welcome!” the attendant calls, a few minutes past the set time. “For this event, you will need to pair up—”

Bucky twitches. Steve’s not looking at him, but he knows. He can feel it. Because he’s just grabbed onto Bucky’s shirt, Christ, _it is time to Calm Down._ He lets go at once, apologizing quietly. Somewhere, his Ma’s dumbass-senses are definitely tingling.

Just as he’s about to mentally banish himself to one of the lower pits of hell, gentle fingers tentatively snake around his arm. Steve glances at the hand gripped around his wrist, follows the line of the arm to a strong shoulder, up a graceful, tanned neck, to a square jaw and chapped lips, all the way to Bucky’s pretty, pale eyes.

“Like old times, right?” Bucky softly asks. He’s got laugh lines, beautiful, amazing laugh lines, and when his lips pull into a nervous smile, there’s a dimple in his cheek.

“Like old times,” Steve promises before that smile can dim.

“Uh, sirs, are you gonna sit down, or…?” the attendant says.

Everybody is staring at them from their own seats. Throw in some popcorn and it’ll be like an amateur show at on off-off- _off_ -Broadway theater. 

Blushing furiously, Steve pulls out a chair for Bucky—someone titters—and then sits down himself, looking down at his lap. That was… a new level of over-eager that he isn’t quite ready to explore yet but will let Sam pry out of him later. _What happened to ‘no distractions’? Get your head in the game!_ One half of his brain shouts. Another, smaller but insistent, part screams _WILDCATS!_ Which: when will he be free of _High School Musical_? 

The attendant clears her throat and continues, “The game is a charades-style affair. You must first draw a card. On one side, the category is written out, on the other five objects or subjects, four of which must be guessed by your partner. You must communicate the nature of these entries using either humming, verbal description, miming, or drawing—the mode will be determined via the game pieces. You must guess as many of the listed units on your card as possible before time runs out. However! One of the five entries is there to trip you up; if your partner guesses this entry, you forfeit your turn.”

Bucky winces, discomfited. He’s not the only one. 

“We’ve got this,” Steve tells him, sotto-voce. Bucky throws him a pessimistic glance. “I promise, Buck.”

Why does making that vow feel like it means so much more than a declaration to win a goddamn boardgame? At least it makes Bucky press their forearms together for one brief moment and give a stoic nod. They’re in this together ( _they’re allll in thiiiis togeth—please, brain, I’m begging you to stop_ ).

The game is… brutal. And not just because of Steve’s overdeveloped competitiveness.

The only good thing is that it’s absolutely hilarious to see people he once knew try to hum a _bald eagle_ , draw _melancholia_ , or mime Journey’s _Don’t Stop Believing._ Maybe, if they all knew each other better, they’d be able to read the subtle clues their partners are trying to convey, but instead it’s all an incoherent, tone-deaf mess.

Not even Steve, who’s never quite forgotten Bucky’s little mannerisms from hours spent glaring at him from across the cafeteria, knows how to read this older, more-closed version of a man he’d only barely known as a boy.

A few rounds in, Bucky gets frustrated.

He’s miming… something, and Steve’s rattling off guesses like machinegun bullets. All he knows for sure is that their category is American tourist attractions. You’d think that narrowed it down. It does not.

Ten wrong guesses go by. Bucky pauses, runs a hand through his hair in frustration. His eyes flash, narrow. He very carefully raises both hands, thumbs and pinkies stretched out, lowers his hands again, and brings his thumbs together. It takes a second and looks more like a helpless gesture than an actual attempt at miming anything.

Except Steve knows better. Because he knows ASL.

Bucky is _cheating._ Bucky is _brilliant._

“It’s… a park?” Steve says, pretending he doesn’t know exactly which park. Bucky nods, flashes a mischievous grin that Steve returns.

They wipe the floor with their opponents—much to everyone’s surprise and consternation. The change from fumbling to outstanding isn’t exactly smooth, but whatever. They’ve won. Their congratulations are uttered like jinxes, half-admiring and half-petulant. Bucky keeps back, lets Steve handle their ‘well-wishers’. Steve makes sure to stand between Bucky and the crowd; it doesn’t go unnoticed. Bucky’s considering gaze burns on his neck.

“When did you learn ASL?” Steve asks, later.

“Nat’s boyfriend is deaf, doesn’t like wearing his hearing aids.” It’s only half the truth, but Steve doesn’t yet know that, doesn’t think to ask for more.

*

Back on their floor, before they part, Bucky pauses in the hallway, hand on the doorknob. Steve pretends he hasn’t been studying Bucky, fumbles with his keycard to look busy. This is neither the time nor the place to get lost in Bucky’s features, in the little dimple on his chin, the squareness of his jaw, the stubble coming in. Mostly because the staring is getting really creepy.

“I’ll see you tonight?” Bucky asks, voice rising hopefully.

“Yeah, yes!” Steve rambles. “Definitely. I’ll be there.”

Steve Rogers promises himself that he is going to have the prom experience he’d always told himself he didn’t want back in high school. He’s going to thumb his nose at everybody, hang out with his best friend and a small group of people he might actually grow to like, and maybe even get a kiss at the end of the night. God, he hopes Bucky is open to that—though, of course, Steve will respect a ‘no’. But fuck. Hope springs eternal—especially when hoping for something you’ve always denied wanting.

All he has to do now is get ready.

*

Thor wrestles him to the floor, perches on the bed himself. “Sit still,” he orders, waving the hair mousse threateningly. “You’re worse than the kids, I swear. Sam, tell him he’s being a baby.”

“ _You’re gonna be fine, Steve,_ ” Sam says with an audible eyeroll, tinny voice echoing over the phone. Thor had put him on FaceTime when Steve accidentally strangled himself with his tie. “ _He’s at least a little bit interested, all you gotta do is keep calm and be yourself_.”

“That is a terrible plan!” Steve cries, wincing when Thor pulls his hair too hard. Steve has sensitive follicles! Not Scandinavian Viking hair! He’s fragile, damn it! In a delicate state! “He hated me in high school, he’s been watching me being fake polite all day, he knows I’m a sham, and I’m probably not even his type.” He sighs—though Thor would call it a whine.

“Pull yourself together, Rogers!” A beat. Sam narrows his eyes. “Are you listening to the _Shrek 2_ soundtrack? _Again_?”

“Jennifer Saunders didn’t have to go that hard, Sam. But she did it; she did it for _all of us_.”

Despite the theatrics, Sam stays on the phone until Steve is ready. His hair looks good—great, even; Thor has always had a better sense of how to style it than Steve himself, so it’s a careful mix between effortlessly messy and Hollywood neat. He’s in a blue suit with a turquoise shirt, and a simple, black tie. It’s a bit much, a bit loud, but it highlights the color of his eyes and his lips something fierce.

Thor himself is in a longish, red jacket and has his hair plaited; if he walked the red carpet, he would surely be mistaken for an actor. Seeing Steve waffle at the mirror, hands rising to poke at his hair again, he drags Steve out of the room like a mama cat with a recalcitrant kitten.

The meet no one on their way down.

Like the rest of their meals, dinner is paid for and will be provided, though not buffet style this time. When they’d RSVP’d, they’d marked down their meal preferences, and Steve knows he has something to look forward to; even if it’s a little bit hoity-toity, it’ll taste pretty good. Also: this is New York. If he gets peckish, he can just go down the street, there’ll surely be a fast-food place open less than a block away.

For the entree, he’ll be having crab lasagna, some kind of lamb and gnocchi for the main, and crème brûlée for dessert. Oh, and there’s an open bar. All the better to swindle them out of their money later for all those donations the school is clearly desperate for.

At the entrance to the dining hall, they’re handed a ballot. “The most important ones are, of course, Prom King and Queen,” Marianne explains, like Steve and Thor didn’t both attend their actual prom in high school. “You can substitute ‘Prom Regent’ if there is anyone whose gender identity is incompatible with the traditional terms. Have fun!”

In an ideal world, Steve would be able to recount his night like this: he’d swept in, knocked everyone on their asses, spent the night with his friends, won the reunion, kissed the boy, the whole shebang.

It… doesn’t quite go that way.

Now, another thing Steve would like to tell you is that seeing Bucky all dressed up was like something out of a movie. The doors opened and there he was. Some rock song played—or was it an angelic choir singing? He strutted towards Steve, all swagger and charm and so, so unlike the man he’s become, and pulled a quippy one-liner, something flirty, something outrageous. And Steve took his hand and kissed him and it was fireworks and dragonflies and champagne poppin’.

Again: _not_ how it happens.

Steve is sitting at the table, getting more and more impatient. Dinner will be served soon, but he’s hungry _now,_ and the bread is right there. There’s no such thing as too much bread—ooh, and they’ve shelled out for the good butter. The bread is sweet, yeasty, warm. He’s already had four slices. There will be no shame tonight. Carbs are God’s gift to mankind.

There’s a presence at his elbow. “Is this seat taken?”

Steve looks up, a breadcrust hanging out of his mouth, cheeks ballooning.

Maybe this part _is_ a bit like the movies. Bucky is… everything. Eyes lowered, voice soft, a nervous twitch in his hands. His hair is pulled back again. His suit is sea green, verging on blue; instead of a button-up, he’s in a soft, creamy shirt of some kind, a short-sleeved, high-necked sweater, maybe. He looks soft. Delectable. Beautiful beyond belief. The kind of man you want to ruin you for all others.

Steve forces a swallow—sputters breadcrumbs everywhere instead, crust somehow still in his mouth, dangling like a fishing-hook.

Yeah, he’d have preferred the movie version, too.

*

He barely eats, after that. His hunger is all gone, replaced with nauseous giddiness. At his side, Bucky pushes his food around, too, not eating much, a few bites, a few sips of water, barely speaks except when spoken to. It’s tense, but not in a bad way. Expectant.

By the grace of their friends, it goes mostly unnoticed. Natasha’s boyfriend, Clint, is a riot and a half—also, Steve has definitely seen him somewhere before, but where the hell was it? Could be he’s just got one of those faces, but Steve has eidetic memory, it’s just a matter of his brain actually kicking into gear and retrieving said memory.

Tony plies them with alcohol (but doesn’t drink any himself, curiously. The dark liquid in his wine glass isn’t wine, Steve picked it up by accident and got as far as raising it to his lips before he noticed the smell was off). Steve keeps to water, a few sips of wine; Bucky doesn’t drink even a single drop of alcohol, just nudges his glass closer to Natasha when no one’s looking.

But Steve is looking. He can’t _stop_ looking.

Not when dinner is over, and Bucky’s curbed smile has etched itself onto the backs of his eyelids. Not when it’s time to fill out the ballots and Bucky bites his lower lip in contemplation; Steve scrawls in names that he forgets the second he puts down the pen again. When they’re all herded from the dining area to the ballroom and Bucky walks closer. When the music comes on and people fill the dancefloor and Bucky doesn’t head straight for the center. He’d always danced back in high school, had moved with grace and known how to get girls to laugh. Now, he watches it all with trepidation, finds excuses to hang back. 

And Steve is so fucking obvious, you’d be able to spot his mooning from the moon itself.

And Bucky is—he’s looking _back_.

Not like he’d done in high school, those little, fleeting glances that Steve had taken for dismissals or even curiosity of some kind. When Bucky looks at him, it’s clear that he forces himself to hold Steve’s gaze even though it unsettles him a little. Steve wouldn’t know how to tear himself away even if the world depended on it, not when his heart is singing _finally_.

He talks to Tony at some point about… something. Steve can’t remember, but it must have been interesting, or at least amusing, because he thinks of Tony only as ‘Tony’ from then on. On the list of things he hadn’t seen coming, that one was pretty near the top. Thor, too, appears to enjoy Tony’s company, though not as much as talking to Bruce. He’s probably going to drag Bruce home with him like a puppy at some point, hand him to Jane, and go, “look what I found! A friend!”

It’s best not to contemplate what mischief they can get up to together.

“Remember our deal,” Natasha reminds him cryptically, making Steve jump. Where the fuck did she come from? “You figured it out yet?”

Steve most certainly hasn’t figured out anything except how badly he wants to be alone with Bucky. If they could just have a moment, just get it out of their systems—because _please_. He’s not a fool; he might be starry-eyed right now, but no one finds their life partner at a damn high school reunion, okay? The fascination will fade, they’ll remember why they never happened the first time around. Come morning, it’ll be over.

And that’s okay. Impermanence is not a curse.

Even if right now the thought of it stings.

He’d wallow in it, but he’s distracted by the dexterity of Bucky’s metal hand. If it wasn’t for the gleam, you’d forget it was a prosthetic. Bucky treats it likes there’s no difference between his two hands, as if it was always a part of him. Curiosity burns in Steve’s chest, forced down and boiling. It’s not just about how Bucky lost his arm—though that question remains—but how it feels, what Bucky _can_ feel when he reaches out, does it work on touchscreens, is it smooth, do the plates pinch, what would it feel on his thighs—

Bucky is leaving.

Slowly but surely, he’s weaving his way towards the exit, only stopping to speak to Natasha and Clint on the edge of the dancefloor. His shoulders are tense, so tight they’re nearly touching his ears, and his hair is coming undone strand by strand. Natasha waves him off, lets Clint spin her into some weird ‘70s boogie. At least someone is having fun.

Steve steps forward, almost unconsciously.

“Buck!” Bucky turns. “Are you leaving?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admits. He flicks a glance around. “I—the noise is getting to me. I could use some quiet.”

“Right. Of course.” What else can Steve say to that? _No, don’t go, ignore your obvious discomfort, please just stand next to me for the rest of the night, we don’t even have to talk, let’s just pretend we’re alone._ Not even Steve’s libido is that insensitive. “It was… it was nice to see you.”

“You, too.” A beat. Bucky bobs his head, shuffles his feet. “Come with me?”

Steve’s brows fly up. “Yeah? Yes! You sure?”

In response, Bucky pulls on his sleeve, not letting go as he leads Steve out. Steve catches Thor’s attention, jerks his head at Bucky; Thor wiggles his brows and gets a rude gesture in return. It’s not like that.

… is it?

No. _Stop thinking that._ Bucky has just had enough, but doesn’t want to be alone. It’s nothing. 

The elevator arrives with a ding. Steve is trembling.


	4. SATURDAY going on SUNDAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is talking... and doing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is NSFW
> 
> i'm on track for my exam reading, so i allowed myself to write, hopefully i'll get the ending done soon, too!

“I’ll join you in a moment,” Bucky says, waving vaguely at his room door. “I just need… you know.”

“Yeah, sure, you do you,” Steve says nonsensically. He doesn’t know what Bucky means, but at this point, it doesn’t matter. Bucky’s coming back to him, after he’s done with whatever. Unless he’s going to be snorting cocaine, Steve doesn’t actually care, as long as he won’t be alone tonight.

In the few minutes it takes for Bucky to join him, Steve rushes around his room, looking for anything to clean up. There’s not much to do—it _is_ a hotel room after all, cleaning service included—but one last check to confirm that there is no dirty laundry lying around will settle his nerves.

When Bucky comes in with a gentle knock, he’s just in shirtsleeves, his jacket folded over his arm. Why he didn’t just drop it off in his room if he’s not going to wear it is a question Steve doesn’t ask, at least not out loud. Besides, that thought is quickly overshadowed by the mouthwatering view of Bucky’s chest and shoulders in that shirt; the muscle definition can be easily traced beneath the soft cloth, and it makes Steve want to cup and squeeze and pet until Bucky begs.

“You want a beer or anything?” he offers thoughtlessly, walking towards the minifridge. Anything to stop gawking like some Neanderthal.

“No, thanks. I don’t drink,” Bucky says. There’s a soft thump; he’s sat down.

“Oh. Right.” Not like Steve had only witnessed that just an hour ago. _Well done, Rogers_. _Splendid attention to detail_. He grabs a couple of waters instead, tries not to glance at the price tag. Why are hotel beverage prices so high? It’s not like it’s water from Shangri-La, but you’d think it was made from the tears of Naiads and filtered through spun-glass.

Bucky fidgets. “It’s not that I can’t, it’s just… I’m on meds. Not strong ones, but still. I don’t wanna risk it.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Steve assuages, plopping down on the floor next to Bucky. They’re leaning against the side of the bed, turned towards the large windows and the view of the sky. “I’m on meds, too.” Largely vitamin boosts these days, but some iron tablets, too. In truth, he usually avoids drinking because his body can’t handle it properly. Other people have hangovers. Steve has week-long zombie recovery. 

Bucky laughs, a short burst. “Right.” There’s a short, strange silence. “It’s just… okay, so you can tell me to fuck off or whatever, but you don’t look like the kinda guy who needs them, meds or whatever. Not anymore.”

“Neither do you, Buck,” Steve replies softly.

Bucky’s brows jump, and this time, he scoffs and turns away. “Okay, Stevie. If you say so. Kinda left my left arm and spare serotonin in the desert, but yeah, I’m sure I look like I’ve got it all together. Real charming.”

The nickname roars through him like liquid fire. Steve doesn’t rebuke Bucky, not with the name and not with his sentiments; for one, he has no leg to stand on, not with calling Bucky ‘Buck’, and for the other, nothing good would come of it. Those are Bucky’s hurts, and Steve can’t rewrite them in just a few words. “What, you think you were charming before that?” Bucky’s gaze snaps to Steve’s face, surprised outrage all over him. Steve stares back, eyebrow quirked. “You and I remember reality very differently.”

“Jesus Christ, Steve,” Bucky guffaws, laughter spilling from him, slow and unwilling at first, growing in strength and pulling Steve in. There must be poetry written for attraction such as this, something like, _to me, he seems equal to the gods_ … “You’re such an asshole, how the hell did I think that would’ve changed?”

“You can’t improve on ‘perfect’, Buck.” He lets the chuckles peter out. “Apart from the whole physical aspect, I suppose.” With his hands, he illustrates, honest about it for the first time this weekend. “Got a cochlear implant in this ear—you can see the scar in the right light. Lasik surgery in both eyes. Couple of surgeries to fix… fucking everything in my chest, I guess. Those scars are real pretty, I can tell you. Spinal fusion, growth hormone therapy...”

“We airing medical records? ‘Cause I’ve got one as long as my arm, too, scars included.”

Steve smirks, sways towards Bucky and bumps their shoulders. “It’s a nice arm. Real fancy.”

Bucky curls his fingers, the plates flexing. A shadow falls over his face, not quite sad, but not exactly thoughtful either. “You haven’t asked. About the arm, I mean. But you look at it.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t be. I don’t mind people looking. It’s their reactions that fuck me up. It’s either pity or disgust. Contempt, too, depending on the level of douchebaggery. One of those three. Except for when it’s kids—they look at my arm like it’s magical. You look at it like that, too. I don’t mind that.”

It’s difficult to look away; Steve’s face is burning, flushed from the roots of his hair and all the way down his neck. “You complementin’ me or callin’ me a child, Buck?”

Bucky chuffs, then grows silent again. “There’s another thing you haven’t said anything about either.” A beat. “I know you don’t— _didn’t_ _use_ to have much good to say about the military. And you probably know I had plenty of chances to make a different choice.”

“What are you asking me?”

Bucky winces, picks at his metal arm to avoid looking at Steve. “It’s stupid, but I guess I just wanna know how you can be nice to me now that you know what I became.”

Steve hesitates. “Well… my view hasn’t changed,” he begins. Bucky’s face falls. “No, wait—it was always about the military industrial complex, not the individual soldiers and vets. I don’t agree with the choice you made, but somehow, I don’t think you do either. Not anymore.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs. He leans back, stares at the ceiling. “I didn’t get it back then, you know? I mean, sure, I knew war was a bad thing. But I went anyway—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Buck.”

“I _want_ to. It’s—fuck, people have had the audacity to fuckin’ lecture me when I say that our military is built on manipulation. Like I didn’t fucking go through it? I was just a dumb kid, the whole world open to me. But everything was falling apart, with Nat, with my sexuality, what I was gonna do for the rest of my life—it was just too much, I felt so fucking helpless. Everywhere I turned, I had to make a choice, and I felt like I was disappointed everybody.

“And the recruiters knew just how to take advantage. _You don’t have to make a choice yet, son, your future is bright, it’ll still be there when you get back_. _We’ll take care of you._ I was so fucking stupid. I believed them and they made me a murderer for it. And when I came home? _Good luck with that PTSD, son, that’s none of our business._ They’ve got no use for a soldier who sees them for what they are.” He pauses, draws an angry, shuddery breath. Glances at Steve, scoffs at himself. “Tell me to shut up or something, I know I’m bad company when I get going.”

Steve shrugs, pretends he isn’t rocked by the pain in Bucky’s voice. Inside, however, he’s shaking with the need to pull him in, wash the hurt away. To rage alongside him, to listen, to let Bucky know he’s being _heard_. “I’ve never said no to a political rant in my life.”

Bucky chuckles, only slightly forced. “I remember.”

Because Steve’s guard is down and his brain-to-mouth filter has a habit of going out the window at the most inopportune times, he blurts: “Do you?” Bucky frowns at him. “I always thought I wasn’t worth your notice. Certainly did your best to ignore me.”

Silence reigns supreme. Bucky is looking away again, eyes fixed on the horizon. His shoulders are curled forward, just a little, defensive, and his cheeks are dusted with red. Steve lets him gather himself, doesn’t push, even if now that he’s finally asked, he desperately wants to. 

“It was never _noticing_ you that was a problem,” Bucky mumbles at his lap. “It was trying not to.”

Steve’s heart beats faster. Is this…? “Always thought you kinda hated me.”

Bucky shakes his head, flicks a glance at Steve’s face. “No.”

There’s barely any space between them. When did they get so close? When Steve first bumped their shoulders? When Bucky laughed? He is sitting with one leg folded up under him, Steve’s thrown over it, not touching, but intertwining them none the less. The warmth of him is like a living thing, the awareness a hum that goes through Steve’s jacket and shirt, piercing.

And Bucky’s looking at him. Tilted towards him, just a little. This close, Steve easily divines the frown lines ever embedded on his brow, the nervous flutter of his lashes. And Steve? Steve is leaning in. So easily the mood changes, frustration and hurt long forgotten.

It’s the kind of tension where they are both aware of what’s happening. What’s coming. A sweet, sweet ache that starts in your chest and makes your entire body tremble. Makes you lick your dry lips. They’re not reaching for each other, not with their hands, not yet. Their noses bump lightly, almost a caress. Gazes meet, flicker away, pupils dark, devouring. Bucky’s looking at his lips, mouth soft and welcoming. Poised.

When Steve speaks, their lips graze. A light has gone up in his mind; the answer to a question he’d asked of another. But he has to be sure. “Buck,” he breathes. “Why did Natasha hate me back then?”

Bucky’s eyes close. Steve can taste his breath. “Because of the way I looked at you.”

Steve fits them together.

A first kiss is always awkward, either too tentative or too sudden, but both in a good way. Theirs is rushed and deep and too desperate by far. But it trails into another, and another, and another, slick and wet and so, so perfect. Without conscious effort, Steve has raised his hand, pulled Bucky closer by cupping his jaw, sliding his fingers into his hair; it’s soft, just like he thought. Like he’s hoped. With the other, he grasps Bucky’s arm—the metal one—the shock of cold somehow tantalizing.

He scratches through the light stubble on Bucky’s jaw, makes him shiver. Bucky tastes like caramel, like cream, from his dessert. Steve maps out his lips, upper, lower, corners. Bites, draws a low moan.

Suddenly, Bucky pushes him off; Steve’s back hits the side of the bed, eyes flying open. An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but Bucky climbs into his lap, a leg on either side of Steve’s hips; he tilts his head up, pauses only briefly, those pale eyes cataloguing Steve’s features, the too-obvious lust of his flush, the kiss-plumped redness of his parted lips.

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky breathes, and kisses him again.

With his tongue, he inscribes on Steve’s soul the only thought that matters, which is Bucky’s name. Everything else ceases to matter, to exist entirely. Only the feel of him, the _sound_ of him, the taste and sight and want of him mean anything.

Steve is ripped wide open, long buried dreams enveloping him. This isn’t the boy he’d unwillingly wanted, but a man so much better. Bucky takes, and takes, and takes, what is Steve to do? Only pull him closer, run his hands over his back, over those powerful shoulders, hold his sides and trace the outline of his nipples, make Bucky keen.

Steve is just as loud, painfully so. Were he capable of higher thought, he would be embarrassed by it, but shame does not exist between them now. What is there to be bashful about, when Bucky wants him, too, when Bucky touches him like this is more than just lust?

“Get your jacket off,” he’s saying, pushing at it ineffectually. “Get your goddamn tie off, please, _Stevie_ , let me touch you, _please,_ lemme touch you.” Steve obeys, struggles out of it; if it rips, it rips. Fuck it.

A few buttons definitely go the way of the mammoths, because Steve is not nearly naked enough for Bucky’s taste. The metal hand is strong, a little clumsier than a flesh hand, not good with delicate things like buttons and zippers. Not that Steve is stopping him; he’s too busy panting into Bucky’s neck, trailing distracted, messy kisses as he feels him up underneath his shirt.

There’s scarring near Bucky’s shoulder, around the metal socket. But Steve knew that, doesn’t pause at the feel of it, is just a little bit more careful not to dig his nails in. Once Bucky has wrestled him out of his shirt, Steve does the same for him, and when they come together again, it’s skin on skin.

Hips stuttering, they both groan; Steve pulls Bucky closer, so close there’s not a breath between them, grinds up and lets Bucky feel him, feel how hard he is, how much he wants him. Just as eager, Bucky rolls his hips down, is nothing but a noisy mess of pleas and moans.

The could do it on the floor; they’re not that old yet, and the carpet isn’t too rough. There’ll be a burn, sure, but really, it’s the least of their worries. The biggest one? “I don’t have condom,” Steve pants, past the point of worrying about presumptuousness.

“I do,” Bucky promises, words nearly indistinguishable as he marks Steve’s chest with kisses and bites. He flicks a nipple with his tongue, cupping Steve’s pec roughly.

“Get it. Fuck, Bucky, _please_.” 

One last dirty kiss and Bucky is off, stumbling towards his discarded jacket. Steve takes the chance to get up, too, to open his pants and slip them and his shoes and socks off. The pressure around his dick disappears; he’s no longer awkwardly confined, and he nearly groans at the feeling, cock jerking against his hand when he rubs against it.

He gets tackled back onto the bed, gasps a surprised, giddy laugh. Bucky throws the condom and a few single-packets of lube on the bed, runs frantic hands over Steve’s skin. With hungry eyes he devours Steve, lays claim to favorite spots; his belly, his chest, the curve of his biceps, the bulge of his cock in his boxer-briefs. His mouth hangs open, astonished almost.

Steve can emphasize, because he’s doing the same. While both big men, they’re built a little differently; Steve’s musculature is largely the product of vanity, but Bucky is broader, built from physical labor not solely gym time. He’s thicker in the waist, strong, like he could hold Steve up against the wall, _fuck_.

He is also struggling to get out of his pants.

“Don’t you think that woulda been easier to do when you were standing?”

“Not really inclined to think right now, Stevie,” Bucky quips. When his pants finally come off, so do the rest of his clothes.

Kneeling back between Steve’s thighs, he’s a vision, one that Steve would want to savor if not for his eagerness. “How do you want this?” he asks, reaching for Bucky. He wants to feel him, wants to leave a mark, wants to get under Bucky’s skin and stay there. “Wanna fuck me? Want me to suck you? Please, God, Buck, let me suck you, I wanna taste, I’ll be so good to you, I swear—”

Bucky surges forward, kissing him fiercely. The weight of him on top of Steve is something near divine, especially as their cocks brush, parted only by Steve’s underpants. With a groan, Steve pushes them down, not a lot, just enough for them to touch, to exchange dirty kisses down below.

“Come on, sweetheart, tell me, I’ll let you do anything to me, just wanna feel you, Bucky, tell me, _tell me,_ ” he begs.

Bucky shudders, whines into Steve’s mouth. “I wanna—I wanna be in you, can I, do you want me to?”

“ _Yes_ , God, yes, get me ready for you, want you to,” and a whole lot of other babbling.

They fumble for the lube; opening one of those little packets is hard when your hands are sweaty and shaking. It doesn’t get easier when Steve takes that moment to palm Bucky’s cock, to jerk is slow and easy, barely more than a graze, but it makes Bucky fuck into his hold, swearing and pushing him away.

In a thoroughly entertaining bout of acrobatics, Steve also manages to get his boxers off without kicking Bucky in the face. It is not, however, graceful, and the barely restrained mirth on Bucky’s face says it all, make Steve break out in giggles.

He’s still laughing when the first touch comes, a shock of cool lube and pressure. It heats up quickly though, because Bucky trails fire along sensitive skin, pushing in when Steve shudders into his touch. Steve’s always loved this, loves the weirdness of it, the overwhelming strangeness of it, turning slowly into pleasure.

But he wants Bucky, not his fingers, and this part can’t be over soon enough for his taste. Nonetheless, Bucky tries to draw it out, to get Steve so close to the edge he shivers with every movement, one finger becoming two, becoming three, stretching him so good before Steve has had enough and flips them, crawling onto Bucky and lining him up.

“ _Condom_!”

“Fuck, hurry, _need you_ , come on—”

And finally, he feels Bucky against him.

No matter the prep, it’s been a while for Steve, and the slide down is done in starts and stops, not exactly seamless and easy, but still the best thing he’s ever felt. Bucky gentles him through it, runs his hands over Steve’s thighs, his nipples, his cock, which has flagged a little with the initial discomfort.

When Bucky’s all the way in, Steve takes a moment just to feel him, to sit up and shift his hips slowly. Right then, he only cares about his own pleasure, about the way Bucky feels inside him, pressing and hot and _full_. Bucky’s soft mews of pleasure register, but they don’t make him speed up. This part is for him only, to sink into and remember for the rest of his life.

Leaning forward, he kisses Bucky’s chin, his jaw, his mouth, whispers, “I’m ready.” Places his hands on Bucky’s shoulders and _moves_.

Their bodies smack together, inelegant at first, them finding a rhythm. When Steve rolls his hips just right, Bucky hits the exact spot that makes him sees stars, and when Steve cries out, Bucky shifts his grip and aims for it again and again. Steve is close enough—has been for a while—that the entire ride is just one long stretch of mind-melting pleasure, blotting out the little aches, like the burn in his thighs or his too-sensitive skin.

Their faces are close together, but they’re not kissing, just panting and sometime licking at each other helplessly. Bucky plants his heels, bends his knees, and _thrusts_ , making Steve claw at him and arch his back, offering himself to Bucky the only way he knows how.

“I’m gonna—”

“Bucky, Bucky, fill me up, please, I want it, I’m clean, I swear, I _want_ it—”

“Stevie, yes, yes,” Bucky cries, pulling out—distractedly kissing the whine from Steve’s lips—and sliding off the condom, slicking himself back up and pushing in.

It’s only a few thrusts before he comes, clutching tightly at Steve’s ass and holding him open and still. Steve’s torn between spreading his legs or clenching them tight, especially when Bucky groans and throws his head back, slamming in harder. He’s jerking inside Steve, little stutters that drive Steve crazy. One last grind, and Bucky falls back on the bed, pulling Steve to him.

“Gimme a moment,” he whispers, winded. “I’ll get to you, baby, don’t worry—”

“Just stay in me, it’s all I need, just look at me.”

Steve sits back up, head held high as he takes himself in hand, slicking it with spit. Bucky’s half-dazed, still coming down; he whines when Steve grinds down on him, half-hard cock twitching helplessly, almost pained. If Steve closed his eyes, he’d imagine all sorts of filth, imagine sitting on Bucky’s cock just to keep it warm between fucking, of keeping him inside himself for as long as he can. But he doesn’t close his eyes, keeps looking at Bucky, meeting his worshipful gaze.

Because Bucky isn’t looking away anymore.

This doesn’t feel like a one-night stand, and that’s what sends Steve hurtling toward the brink. That, and the feel of Bucky’s cum slipping out of him, despite Steve’s best attempts to keep them together. _God_ , the sounds of it, the slick-slick mess.

He shouts Bucky’s name and comes, hand flying over his prick and head thrown back in ecstasy. As if from far away, he hears Bucky’s voice, feels Bucky pull at him as Bucky tries to push himself further in, anything to get closer.

After, Steve falls forward, squishing Bucky who barks a startled laugh and folds him into his arms. Bucky kisses all over his face, soothing Steve’s shivers with firm touches; curiously, Steve had barely noticed of the difference between flesh and metal while in the act, even when Bucky avoided using one for prep. Guess the plates _do_ pinch.

“Lemme get a cloth, we’re all sticky,” he says between kisses. Steve clutches him tighter, mulishly grumbles. “Come on, sweetheart, I’ll be right back, you know it’s gonna get gross quick.”

So Steve lets him go, rolls off and onto his back. Reality hasn’t quite set in yet, so when he glides his fingers through the cum on his stomach, all he can think is how hot it is, how much he wants to rub it in. He’s wet between his thighs, too.

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters, handing him a cloth and wiping himself down.

Steve watches him do it, lazily swiping at his own skin. He likes the way Bucky looks right now, wants to memorize it and pull it out when he’s feeling lonely, wants to remember the adoration on Bucky’s face when Steve came.

He trails his finger down to his ass, feels around for the cum sluggishly dripping out of him.

Bucky is watching him. His hand is still around his cock, paused in in his ministrations. It twitches.

Steve spreads his legs.

“You’re a fuckin’ menace,” Bucky tells him. But he gets back between Steve’s thighs.


	5. SUNDAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which our story ends

Of the many great things Steve learns that night, one of the best is that Bucky is a cuddler. You wouldn’t think it, not with how he avoids people, but once he’s comfortable around you, you might as well resign yourself to your fate as a body pillow. Don’t try to run. Bucky will find you and smother you with hugs. 

Also, he likes being the little spoon. It isn’t exactly a chore. More like a dream. A dream within a dream. During the night, they drift apart, fall back together again. Steve wakes up to Bucky’s lips on his nape, his hand around Steve’s cock. He sucks Steve off in the dead of night, swallowing so perfectly it’s enough to make a grown man cry, then fucks Steve’s thighs and goes back to sleep.

They sleep like babies.

In the morning, when sunlight streams through the windows, Steve awakens sore, sated, and slightly disgusting. He smells of sex, feels greasy. It’s its own kind of perfect. And even better? Bucky is still there.

Somehow, he hasn’t woken Steve up with his snoring. It’s quite a feat, because surely it has successfully awoken hibernating bears in Canada. He’s got his face smushed against the pillow, mouth open and drooling, and his hair is mess. Were they lovers, Steve would like nothing more than to slide in close and cover Bucky’s shoulder in kisses. But they’re not. They barely even know each other, this night aside.

A teenage crush on an unattainable boy does not a relationship foundation make.

But Steve doesn’t want to leave, not yet, so he lies still, listens to Bucky’s breaths, and watches the rise and fall of his chest as he slumbers. The noise tapers off when Bucky comes to, yawning and scrunching his nose in the most adorable manner. Steve has to look away, heart fluttering in his chest.

“Hey,” Bucky whispers softly.

“Hi.”

“What time is it?”

“’Round… eight, I think. Maybe nine?”

Bucky hums, rubs at his eyes. Neither of them quite knows what to say, are shooting careful glances at each other. Steve is enchanted by the warm flush of morning spread across Bucky’s chest, of the scarring on his shoulder around the prosthetic. It’s not ugly, not beautiful either. It’s just skin. Rougher, a little twisted. But healed. Part of Bucky.

Nothing that is part of him could be ugly to Steve, and wow, he is in _way_ too deep.

“You think they still serving breakfast?” Steve asks.

Bucky wriggles his hand in a _so-so_ wave. “Doubt it.”

“Wanna go down and check?”

Bucky has rolled onto his side, so the shrug he tries to pull off is weirdly lopsided. He reaches across the bed, traces Steve’s surgery scars in the center of his chest, draws his finger along the skin, slow but firm, circles out to a nipple. He glances up from under his lashes, bites his lip.

_Fuck breakfast._

Steve rolls into him, fingers sliding into Bucky’s hair as their lips meet. One kiss, two, a sharp breath—

A beat.

“We should brush our teeth first.”

“Yes, abosolutely.”

*

A few hours later, they have been rushed from the hotel, barely packed and showered before they were due to check out. There is a slew of next messages in Steve’s phone, some he care less about (Thor was named Prom King, Steve was named Best Glow-Up, so, yes, he did win a little, thank you very much), some that just need one word answers ( _are u dead,_ from Sam, and _did you figure it out?,_ from Natasha), and finally, a goodbye message from his Ma that Steve takes the time to answer in full, promising to come back soon.

Steve and Bucky should’ve parted by now, said _that was great, see you never_ and gone their separate ways. Bucky home to Boston, Steve down to D.C. Back home to their lives and their jobs and their routines. Where everything is settled.

Unsurprisingly, that is not what happened.

They’re at a diner in Chelsea, some place Bucky had claimed served the best breakfast on their side of town; Steve’s got a stack of waffles, and Bucky’s slowly making his way through an absolutely humongous omelet.

In daylight, everything is a little more daunting, and they’re both overcompensating. Bucky by being quiet, Steve by talking a lot more than he usually does. His words are a cover for his thoughts, all of which are fixed on the way Bucky’s shirt slips down and shows off his clavicle and the mark Steve left there. Just two hours ago, and they were naked. Things were simple.

Steve doesn’t want to say goodbye.

But bite by bite their food disappears. They linger over the last coffee, but that, too, runs out. Steve talks faster, tries to pack their conversation with every interesting thing he’s ever come across. Bucky smiles, small and shy. When he speaks, Steve leans forward, drawn to him like no one else he’s ever met. Not that Steve’s never been; he has, had loved Peggy fiercely and deeply and truly. Which is why he knows that this feels _exactly_ like that. Only he took this infatuation at a speed run, and he can only pray that it won’t leave him floundering for as long as the loss of Peggy did.

Because the fact of the matter is this: in the blink of an eye Bucky will be gone.

Steve’s only setting himself up for heartache. The cat’s out of the bag, has been since he saw Bucky in the elevator on Friday. So many teenage dreams, but the one about Bucky was the one he’d sated best. But dreams end. It’s time to wake up.

They say goodbye back in the parking garage, Steve slowly checking over his saddlebags for the nth time. Dragging his feet. Bucky looks on, his own duffel slung over his shoulder. In the sunlight, the chestnut strands of his hair shine so bright. He’s got a freckle on his forehead that Steve hadn’t noticed before.

“All ready?”

“I think so.”

“Promise me you’ll drive safe?” Bucky presses. However much he’d eyed up Steve in his bike leathers, he’s much less enthusiastic about the bike itself. It’s a beautiful creation, but Bucky knows the statistics, and he’s not shy about his mistrust. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Pretty sure you’re taking all the stupid with you,” Steve jabs back softly. “I promise, Buck.”

Bucky nods stiffly. “It was good seeing you, Stevie. Even if you’re still a punk.”

“Shut up, jerk.” With that, Steve dives in for a hug, clutching Bucky far too tight. Bucky throws his arms around his neck though, so it’s not too awkward. He rubs his nose back forth along the skin of Bucky’s neck, breathing deeply; Bucky smells of apples, from his shower gel. Steve’s always been partial to that scent.

When you’re already pushing your luck, might as well go all the way. He kisses Bucky’s skin, his throat, his cheek, his lips, which part for him at once. Steve never wants it to end. To the end of his days, he’d be content to breathe the same air as Bucky, live on kisses and caresses, and never, ever leave.

But he must.

One last kiss, close-lipped and sweet, and he’s on his bike. Helmet on, jacket zipped, engine roaring. He looks back, commits it all to memory: Bucky’s sad eyes, his defensive stance. Neither of them wants to go.

Steve turns away, eyes front, puts his foot on the pedal—

“ _Wait!_ ”

Bucky flings himself into front of the motorcycle, his hands closing over Steve’s. they skid forward a little, though Steve quickly slams the brakes.

“ _Are you insane?_ Bucky, are you hurt, oh, God—”

“I’m fine, I’m fine—”

“I told you that you had all the stupid—”

“ _Listen,_ ” Bucky growls. Steve shuts up, but not without a nasty look. He _will_ be continuing that rant, _don’t think we’re done here, Bucky Barnes, that was a fool’s play_. “I mentioned that I travel a lot for work, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so?” Sometime during the night, maybe. Something about Bucky specializing in classic and antique cars and having earned quite the reputation as the go-to guy for this kind of service. As he could move around more easily than the cars he serviced, he often ended up travelling. “Why?”

Bucky breathes deep, sets his jaw. “A week from now, I’m going to be in Alexandria. They’re having a big classic car convention, I’m gonna be staying for a whole week.”

Fragile hope spreads like fire in Steve’s gut. “What are you saying?”

A beat. Tense. Never-ending. Then, “Do you wanna go on a date with me, Steve?”

His first instinct is to tackle Bucky to the ground and yell his answer until it rings in Bucky’s ears. But logic persists in the back of his mind. They live in separate states, an eight hour drive apart. They barely know each other. This wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a one-night stand. A last hurrah for Steve’s long-abandoned past.

And yet… and yet.

“Thought we’d already been on a date,” he stalls.

“It’s only a date if both participants know it’s a date before they go, now stop fucking around, Rogers, I’m dying here. If you don’t wanna, just say the word and I’ll be gone—”

“I do.” Steve draws a trembling breath. “That’s the problem.”

“ _Stevie_ —sweetheart, _please_. Take a chance on me?”

The seconds last for years. Seasons come ago in the space of their breaths. Bucky stands resolute, heart on his sleeve and in his eyes, vulnerable and hopeful. Steve can barely keep upright, knees weak and wobbling, making the bike rock dangerously. He could get hurt—they could _both_ get hurt. They’ve gone too far already, it’ll only intensify from here. If it doesn’t work out, where will they be?

And yet.

They won’t know until they try. “Am I driving down to Alexandria, or are you driving up?”

And Bucky smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all so, so much for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, bookmarking, and just being all around the nicest, kindest people i could share this with. hope to see y'all back for another AU some day!

**Author's Note:**

> minor pairings include:
> 
> \- Natasha + Clint  
> \- Sam + Riley  
> \- Tony + Pepper  
> \- Thor + Jane
> 
> past pairings:  
> \- Steve + Peggy  
> \- Bucky + Natasha


End file.
